


Something Lost and Something Found

by defieddracula



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Explicit Language, Gen, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Themes, but no one has sex or gets raped I promise, i don't think there's anything else worth a warning??, sneak thief shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 16:44:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12798390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defieddracula/pseuds/defieddracula
Summary: Tatiana Vestalis is a thief -- born to thieves and sworn to thieves.  Only her love for her family surpasses her love for coin.  But when the playful sibling rivalry between she and her sister sours, Tatiana, hellbent on defending her reputation in the Thieves' Guild, hastily accepts a contract to steal a horse.  The job is simple, her plan perfect.Or so she thinks.





	Something Lost and Something Found

**Author's Note:**

> Tatiana's always been a thief-turned-hero-turned-assassin, but in all the years I've played her through Oblivion, I never developed her beyond her appearance and behavior regarding in-game quests. Shame on me! 
> 
> So, without further ado, here's what landed her in the Imperial Prison and started her transformation from "Short Blonde and Bright" to "Short Blonde and Bitter."

Chestnut Handy Stables sprawled across the western outskirts of the Imperial City.  That alone made the property ideal for a livery, but much to Tatiana’s—and surely many others’—annoyance, its proprietor, Snak gra-Bura, never sold or rented her animals.  She kept them to line her cooking pots. She didn’t sell their meat or pelts either.  Odd and disconcerting, as far as Tatiana was concerned. Compared to chickens or goats, horses were expensive to keep, and how the orc financed the care of her twenty-some animals, she didn’t know.  Didn’t want to know.

The main road paralleled half the property, and the bridge spanning Lake Rumare abutted its southernmost pasture. B oth tempted would-be horse thieves with the prospect of a dry, swift getaway.  Such escapes were possible, but not guaranteed.  Cobbled roads meant no tracks for guards to follow, but hooves rang out like trumpets upon them.  Merchants looking to hawk their wares in the market district frequently traveled the bridge too, as did travelers visiting relatives, drifters and addicts and vagrants seeking their next meal, and soldiers marching—or trudging—to and from their posts.  Fording Lake Rumare’s shallows was risky for the opposite reasons.  All that, coupled with the animals’ unremarkable pedigrees, made the stables one of the last places from which Tatiana would steal a horse.

Yet a job was a job, and coin was coin.  She and her twin sister Antonia competed in everything—especially in thievery. Each month, they bet on who could steal and fence more goods.  Tatiana’s profits had trailed hers three months straight.  Envy festered inside her, and she fretted day and night over the speed and apparent ease with which Antonia’s climbed the Thieves’ Guild ranks.  Her fences’ smiles already seemed brighter when Antonia strode in.  Her parents’, too.  

When this contract drifted down the guild grapevine, she snatched it as a starving beggar snatches a loaf of bread, greedily and desperately, and only now wondered why someone sought such painfully average horses when finer ones existed elsewhere.  Maybe her client, Felix Rodd, felt sorry for the poor beasts, left to bask in the sun one day and butchered for stew the next.  She certainly did.

Crouched in a copse of birch on the fringes of one of the smaller fields, she surveyed the property for what felt like the hundredth time.  Clouds choked the light of the moons and stars from the sky.  Crickets chirped merrily all around her.  The horses and ponies scattered throughout the fields occasionally snorted or stamped; at her back, the Rumare’s lazy black waters lapped at the shores.  Being just after midnight, she knew the Imperial patrols wouldn’t near this end of the bridge for another two hours—two and a half, if Sol and Pol were on duty.  Things were as good as they’d get.

She willed out a silent prayer to Nocturnal and edged away from the trees.  Occasionally, she wondered if the Prince heard the words she, her family, and guild brethren whispered so frequently, wondered if She cared if She did.  Part of her prayed out of actual devotion, and another thought it was simply appropriate, having been born under the sign of the Thief.  Should Nocturnal hear her, then it behooved Tatiana to earn and keep Her favor.  If not, then she lost nothing.

The barn perched on the hillocks above her, its windows glowing like golden beacons in the inky darkness.  Her heart leapt into her throat as a figure emerged from a side door.  She eased onto her stomach and froze, hoping and praying and wishing and everything in between that they didn’t wander down the road or start retrieving horses.  They thankfully looked too short to be gra-Bura.  Tatiana considered ambushing them if they strayed too far from the barn for too long, clamping her chloroform rag over their mouth and dragging them into the bushes for a nice long nap.  That was a last resort, though.  Bodies, be they dead or unconscious, were dangerous liabilities.  The latter tended to remember things when they woke up.  

So, she held her breath and waited.  Watched.

Many thieves shied away from horse theft.  Necklaces didn’t protest when lead into strange territory, didn’t spook or whinny at inopportune moments. Rings and gems and rolled up paintings fit into pockets or generously cut coats.  They always had buyers too, and most fences had no trouble storing them or, if necessary, shipping them out of Cyrodiil.

Over the years, Tatiana had combed through Cyrodiil’s richest homes and businesses, amassing a small fortune fencing such goods; her father often joked that she’d soon surpass her grandfather, much to Antonia’s annoyance.  She’d never considered stealing horses until one of her fellows bungled such a contract.   A groundskeeper had caught the poor sod attempting to drag one of his master’s stallions off the property. In addition to being tossed in jail for six months, the failed thief also suffered a broken foot and limped to this day, seven years later.  Still searching for her niche in the underworld, Tatiana had offered to steal it in his stead—and succeeded.  Since then, she’d stolen and fenced nearly eighty horses, and now, the guild doyens offered her equine-related jobs before anyone else.  Both the honest and dishonest challenges horses presented thrilled her.  She doubted she could live happily without them, now.

A wolf spider nearly the size of her palm skittered onto her hand.  Hairy and mousy brown, watching her through eight eyes that glistened like polished obsidian.  Daring her to crush it.  Her eyes practically became tea saucers, and by luck, the grace of the Divines, Nocturnal, or all three, she bit back a startled squeal and resisted the urge to swat it. The spider stared at her another moment. Then, as if rewarding her restraint, it danced off into the grass.  She exhaled quickly and stifled a shudder, still feeling its tiny feet pin-pricking across her glove.  Wherever it headed, she hoped it was to a swift death beneath a hoof or boot.

Composing herself, she glanced back up the hill.  The figure had vanished.  _Damn it all._   She waited a few minutes and, seeing no one, decided it was safe to move.  The figure was probably part of the stable’s graveyard shift stepping out for a piss.  Every inch feeling like a mile, she levered herself onto her hands and knees, then back into a crouch.  She’d squandered enough time.

The nameless mare was sixteen hands and of average build.  A deep bay bereft of markings or brands Tatiana would have to smear with mud.  Rodd said she was dominant toward other horses and docile with people, which Tatiana confirmed as she ate lunch along the road a few days prior.  That raised her chance of success; mares led wild bands, not stallions.  Without “follow me” cues from the bay, her pasture mates would likely wander the area in her absence—if they bothered leaving the paddock at all.  The chestnut and spotted geldings looked more like four legged wine barrels than horses.

Sidling along the fence, Tatiana uncoiled the rope from around her waist and looped it over her shoulder.  Hills and clusters of dense bushes shielded the gate from view.  Loud noises could still draw the attention of anyone in the stable yard, but her lunchtime reconnaissance proved that the gate opened silently and was secured only with a rope.  She’d simply leave it open wide enough for a horse to slip through.  With any luck, it’d look like the bay had exploited a weak knot.

One of the three horses jerked its head up as she crossed the field in a half crouch, but resumed cropping the grass seconds later.  The bay mare, however, nosed them apart and strode confidently to her, ears pricked forward.

 _Thank Nocturnal it’s not another game of Chase the Chicken,_ Tatiana thought.  As children, she and Antonia had chased their ponies through their field one too many times for it to be funny.  

She proffered a thick cake from the pouch on her belt, grinned when the mare gobbled it up.  The treats were her little secret, baked with oats, flour, honey, and a touch of an alchemical tonic.  Her father, a master alchemist by trade and a master thief by tradition, taught her the recipe; he created it to temporarily subdue watch hounds and vigilant butlers.  After nearly a year of experimenting on her notoriously skittish gelding, she tweaked the formula so the serum survived baking and mellowed the horses without turning their legs into limp noodles.

Some would condemn her for cheating, insisting that _proper_ thieves didn’t need drugs or magic to finish jobs.  To oblivion with that.  Artists didn’t need charcoal, quills, ink, or fine, imported marble.  They could sketch with a knifepoint and their own blood, could sculpt with river mud.  Cutpurses didn’t need hidden pockets when they could swallow their prizes or wedge them up their arses.  That didn’t mean they _should_.

She dusted her hands off on her thighs as the mare nosed her belt for more. _Avina,_ she thought.  _I’ve got to have something to call you in case someone asks._   She hastily knotted the rope into a halter, slipped it over Avina’s head, and double-checked the knot at the base of her chin before scanning the area again.  Crickets still called, and the water still washed over the shore.  Avina’s companions continued grazing.  No patrols or travelers, no wandering stablehands.

 _I’m sorry I can’t get all of you out of here. Only having two hands and all that._ With an apologetic glance at the other horses, Tatiana led Avina south.

After a mile of sneaking from this copse of trees to that cluster of bushes and avoiding softer tracts of ground in between, they reached the dead sycamore. It had been a titanic thing in life; three men would need to join hands to embrace its trunk.  Lightning felled it decades ago.  Now, it lay amongst the brush like the bones of some forgotten war hero, blanketed in myriad varieties of moss and mushrooms and lichen.  Its stump resembled a jagged, miniaturized mountain range, rising nearly five feet high at its tallest point.  Someone had partially hollowed it out.  There, beneath a tangle of brush and leaves, Rodd had stashed the saddle and bridle he instructed her to use.  The leather was stiff and devoid of tooling, cut and single-stitched in the painfully plain style popular among those too poor to properly care for a horse, or those too cheap to care for their comfort.  Tatiana had grimaced when she first saw the gear.  She clung to the fact that she wouldn’t lose her own tack if she had to cut the mare loose in a hurry.

By now, the drug had smoothed every possible edge in Avina’s personality.  Tatiana swiftly tacked her up, ears straining for sounds of alarm or pursuit.  She heard none.  Avina stood dutifully as Tatiana mounted, and soon, they clip-clopped down the road and onto the bridge, maintaining a lazy, swinging trot to avoid drawing unnecessary attention.  

Tatiana missed her cloak, hood, and bandana.  She’d decided early on that hiding in plain sight was the best option for her plan, so she’d used another of her father’s creations to temporarily darken her hair and eyebrows.  Useful, but vile stuff.  The paste stung her scalp, reeked of molding earth until it dried, itched maddeningly until she rinsed it out, and left a muddy tint in her gold hair for days afterward.  The discomfort wasn’t _entirely_ bad, she supposed.  It distracted her, broke waves of worried thoughts before they could knock her down.  

 _Stay casual and breathe,_ she reminded herself as they neared the archway at the end of the bridge. _Just like Mum and Dad taught you. You’ve smuggled horses through tougher places._

As usual, two sentries faced the road out of the city.  Watch propaganda called them “Stalwart Guardians” and “The Tips of Our Spears.” Bullshit served on silver, according to her.  The outer guard consisted of unseasoned troops or those guilty of misdemeanors.  They did little more than deter riffraff and obvious threats, nod off on the clock, and, depending on their posting’s location and the probability of meeting others, flirt with intoxication or sneak away for a quick wank in a sheltered corner or cluster of bushes.  Tatiana and Antonia had been inveigling them since they joined the guild.  Holding the reins in her teeth, she hastily tightened the laces in her bodice and unbuttoned the first button in her blouse so her collarbones and a sliver of cleavage peeked out.  Enough to entice a hungry eye, but not be particularly memorable.  

“Safe travels wherever you’re bound, ma’am,” one of them said as she passed beneath the arch, jutting his chin up at the sky. “Another storm’s coming, I think.”

 _Definitely a greenhorn,_ she thought, donning her best innocent little girl act and flashing him a sweet smile. “Let it come. I don’t live far. It’s nice not having to water my garden by hand.”

He laughed and rubbed the back of his neck.  He didn’t look much older than her twenty-five years.  Fetching for a guard dog, she supposed, wondering how he’d look in enameled parade armor and without the bushy, godsawful carpet on his cheeks and chin.

The sharp curve of his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.  He moistened his lips, and Tatiana sensed he wanted to talk more to kill boredom or in an attempt to woo her.  That was a good sign, but she couldn’t linger if she wanted to.

She giggled, glanced at his considerably less attractive postmate for good measure, and said, “Divines smile on you both.  I pray the rain holds off until we’re all safely in bed.”

As she hoped, the bearded guard flushed. His mouth opened as if to reply, then closed dumbly when she rode on without further comment.  For the city’s sake, Tatiana hoped he fought better than he hid his emotions.

 _And they say women are easy,_ she thought.  She loosened her laces once they were beyond the guards’ sight.

She spurred Avina into a brisk canter.  They traveled the Black Road for several miles before veering onto the hunters’ path as per Rodd’s instructions.  She’d run the trail a few times in the past fortnight.  It wandered more than the highway, but was easily navigated, clear of fallen trees, and beaten into submission by time and boots and hooves, the wooded sections just wide enough for two riders to slide by each other.  The chances of meeting someone were slim during the day and virtually zero at night.

Roughly half an hour southwest of Fort Ash, an abandoned homestead served as the trail head and dead drop.  She’d claim her three hundred septims, leave Avina in the pen and return to the Black Road, then retrieve her gelding in Chorrol and ride for Bruma to lie low for a few weeks.  If anyone asked, she was visiting a cousin there.

She smiled and stroked Avina’s neck.  Even without her father’s legitimate alchemy practice, the Vestalis family had been lucky—or blessed, depending on the source.  Thieving never guaranteed a luxurious or safe life, but for better or worse, it was _their_ life.  Their purpose.  That pleased her more than gold ever could.

The clouds thinned after a few hours, and stars winked to life in the gaps in the trees.  By the angle of the moons, she guessed it was around three in the morning. Right on time. Fishers’ Brook babbled gleefully nearby.  Nocturnal willing, she’d have time to rinse her hair before heading north.  Much longer and the dye would stain her blouse.  She gave her tailor enough work as it was.

A crisp breeze brushed tendrils of hair from her face, carrying with it the scents of smoke and roasted pork.  She halted Avina.  Some fifty feet ahead, at the back of the hollow, crouched the unassuming homestead.  Light flickered around the edges of the cabin’s shutters.  Smoke twisted up from the chimney, whisked into a pale haze that hung in the forest canopy.  Tenderfoots wouldn’t chance stopping in such a remote location, and woodsmen didn’t set fires or cook unless they planned to stick around.

She scratched the back of her head as she always did when something nipped at her nerves.  Should she turn back? Scout ahead on foot and retrieve Avina if it was safe?  She knew neither her client’s place of residence, nor his personal history.  She also suspected he used an assumed name.  “Felix Rodd” seemed an appallingly obvious alias, but with how cautious he’d been in their dead drop negotiations, as specific his instructions on how she should steal the horse, where she should bring it, how fast she should get there, by oblivion, even by what route to use, he wasn’t stupid enough to light a fire and cook at night.

Instincts screaming for her to flee, Tatiana eased out of the saddle.  She winced at the piercing creak of cheap leather.  She towed Avina behind the boulders off the right side of the trail, great mossy things cast about like toys in a child’s playroom, and tethered her to a sapling, glad the sedative would last another few hours.  Crouched low, she crept into the hollow, now cursing the wretched stream and wondering what her ears missed because of it.

Yet a cursory search of the place revealed nothing.  No smoke, no food, no tracks.  No people.  The homestead looked as it did days ago, abandoned by men and mer and reclaimed by nature.  Inky darkness filled the cabin.  Vines, adorned with waxy, spade-like leaves, cobwebbed the walls.  Weeds choked the tiny corral, garden plot, and the rickety fence ringing them.  Moss cloaked the stone walled well.  Melancholy stillness smothered the place, reminding Tatiana of insects trapped in amber.  Feeling like she was about to become one of those unlucky insects crushed all appreciation she’d had for the baubles, and she made a mental note to consider selling her collection once she got home.  

She held a deep breath for several seconds, exhaled slowly through her nose.  Her eyes burned with fatigue, and her limbs were leaden after three solid hours of riding, but she’d bet her house, her horse, her _life,_ that she’d smelled the food and smoke.  The previous spring, she and Antonia spent a full night and day liberating the valuables from a merchant’s country house whilst he and his string of mistresses frolicked and fucked at some nearby festival, confident enough in his hounds and cutting-edge locks that he ordered his mercenaries along for the trip.  Between incapacitating dogs, tricking locks, slicing paintings out of frames, and stashing the spoils in two separate caverns, she and Antonia had barely snatched enough time to wolf down their jerky sticks and crusts of bread, let alone sleep.  Fencing everything took another week of smuggling the goods to fences in Cheydinhal and Bruma.  Tatiana hadn’t hallucinated then.  Why should she now? Had she left the dye in her hair too long?

As she dragged the pen’s gate open, another gust of wind roared up the hollow; one of the warped, half-open shutters banged against the cabin wall, and Tatiana nearly jumped out of her boots.

“Just the wind,” she muttered.  The fine hairs on the nape of her neck prickled.  “Just the wind…”

Twigs cracked behind her, and she whirled around, whipping her dagger out.  Empty darkness greeted her.  Clammy sweat slicked her palms and glued her gloves to them.  Heart threatening to bash through her chest, she scurried to the shed.  She wanted her money _now_.  Fatigue, the dye, and the darkness were getting to her.  Nothing more.  She’d wash her hair, play the road-weary traveler at The Oak and Crosier, and head north the following afternoon.  Unless Antonia had another secret heist stuffed in her socks, she’d win their monthly competition by a nose.  As their mother said, “Things would all wash out.”

The money would be in the decrepit barrel in the corner, hidden beneath folds of burlap.  The barrel and burlap were there as promised.  At the bottom, though, she found dust and dead beetles instead of a sack of gold. Rifling through the rotted crates and bowed shelves revealed more dust and dead beetles. Tatiana chewed her lip.  She’d arrived on schedule and without any tails.  That meant one of two things.  Something had delayed Rodd, or the entire thing had been a setup.  Either way, damn the mare.  Damn the money.   She had to leave.

She spun on her heel, and a gauntleted fist slammed into her stomach knocking the wind clean out of her.  Pain exploded in her abdomen.  Reflexively, she doubled over, choking on her feeble gasps.  Her dagger thudded to the ground, clanged against the wall as her attacker kicked it aside.

He snickered, the sound dripping with dark glee.  Senses latching onto the sound, Tatiana scrabbled for his head, desperately seeking a nose, beard, ears, jewelry, _anything_ , but found only a curved Legion breastplate before he seized her wrist in a vice-like grip.  He wound her braid around his other hand and twisted; tears blinded her, burned like liquid fire down her cheeks. She clawed at the back of her head with her free hand, but couldn’t pry his fingers loose.  Stomach turning, she realized he could fling her about like an empty sack and she’d be powerless to stop him.  Was this punishment for failing one of Nocturnal's tests?  Or proof that She didn't care about her?

He half-led, half-dragged her outside.  A tall Imperial Battlemage waited for them by the well, arms crossed and blue velvet hood drawn low.  The smoke, the roasting food, the firelight stuttering in the cabin, they’d all undoubtedly been her work, and Tatiana didn’t know if she should feel relieved or disgusted.

“That was easy,” the woman said.

“’Course it was.  Thieves are like spiders.  Unsettling when you can’t see them, but so easy to squish.”  Her captor, now, in a voice as abrasive as loose sand.  “Best get the horse, eh, Mel?”

The woman’s full lips pinched into a scowl.  “No, Duncan.  You’ll get the horse.  Vestalis is not to be harmed.”

“Oh, a little sport never hurt anyone.  Look at her!  She’s as stiff as a tree trunk,” he said, pulling Tatiana’s braid again.  She whimpered, and he huffed a dark laugh through his nose.  “Five minutes.  They won’t know.  They’ll torture her anyway.  Loosening her up might make their job easier.”

“ _I_ will know.  And I outrank you.  Touch her, and I’ll see you court-martialed and jailed.  Your wife will go hungry, and your mistress will move on to someone who can still afford to spoil her.  We are arms of the law, and you _will_ behave as such.   Bind her and let’s go.”

Duncan's face and neck reddened.  Tatiana squirmed as his gaze slipped down the front of her shirt, as cold and slimy as a pickled eel.  Willingly using her body to manipulate men was different.  Amusing, even; she got what she wanted and split long before they could try to take what they wanted.  She used alternative methods when she couldn’t guarantee control in such situations.  Now, her lack of formal combat training combined with the feral glint in the soldier’s eyes made her feel like a mouse in a hawk’s talons.  That he stood a full head taller than her didn't help.

“Fine,” he spat suddenly, then shoved her to the ground and planted his boot between her shoulder blades.  What breath she’d managed to recover whooshed out.  “Hands above your head.”  Shaking, she obeyed, and the crushing pressure in her chest lifted as he knelt to frisked her.  He tossed aside her little iron knife from the sheath on her boot then bound her wrists in rope coarse enough to saw through steel.  When he spoke again, his tone was that of a child reciting his letters for the thousandth time.  “Tatiana Fausta Vestalis, on the order of Captain Hieronymus Lex, you are under arrest for eight counts of horse theft, twelve counts of grand larceny, four counts of forgery, and the ransacking of Rindir’s Staffs.  You will be charged, tried, and held without bail.”  

 _Hieronymus Lex._ The name should’ve sparked rage in her, scorching and wild and desperate, but the last charge the soldier spoke practically hurled her into an icy river.  She hadn’t even been in the Imperial City when the thief broke into Rindir’s shop.  Antonia had.

It had been her sister’s biggest and most secretive hit that year, netting her nearly two thousand septims.  Not even their parents knew she was responsible.  One of the investigators found a strand of golden hair, and Antonia, known to frequent the area and lacking an alibi, had been questioned.  After her release, she fled to Tatiana’s Cheydinhal cottage.  “The watch is on to me, Tat.  You’ve got to help,” Antonia had begged, tears smearing the kohl around her eyes.  Nocturnal’s crows, she’d looked like a pathetic, panicked raccoon.  A decent liar though she was, Tatiana outmatched her.  Without hesitation, Tatiana took her hands, looked her in the eye, and swore to conjure up something to exonerate her. How could she not?  Blood made relatives.  Loyalty made family.

Antonia apparently hadn’t felt the same way.  Oblivion take the sniveling bitch, she’d probably implicated Tatiana—and revealed her other recent scores—when the Watch questioned her, realizing that neutralizing her sister would make her their parents’ favorite and eliminate a key underworld rival.  By now, she was undoubtedly spilling crocodile tears before their parents and spluttering out the news that her twin had been arrested or killed.  Hatred seethed in Tatiana’s gut.  But more than anything, she hated herself for underestimating Antonia, for so blindly trusting familial bonds.  She vowed to never make that mistake again.

Her instincts demanded she fight or feign innocence to buy enough time to escape.  Legionaires wore heavy plate; she wore leather, suede, and muslin, and she knew the terrain.  She could outlast them.

The battlemage’s presence brutally stamped that possibility out.  Tatiana barely knew any healing magics, let alone any silencing spells, and the likelihood of the watchmen having horses hidden nearby further stacked the odds against her.  If they caught her, they’d kill her.  Her crimes didn’t warrant execution so long as she went quietly.  As much as she despised submitting to them, she didn’t react when Duncan yanked her to her feet or flinch when he slapped her backside and shoved her toward Mel.

Mel shot Duncan a withering glare.  She handled Tatiana with surprising, but appreciated gentleness.  Law and order types could be just as gruff as their act-now-ask-questions-later counterparts.  Tatiana told herself it was because they were both women carving lives out of men’s worlds.  A hollow comfort perhaps, but a comfort nonetheless.

Mel led her to a stately dappled gray destrier tethered near the mouth of the hollow.  The gelding dwarfed Tatiana, and she guessed he stood around eighteen hands.  The animal nickered and flicked its ears toward them, and she couldn’t ignore the sadness knifing through her heart.  Her horse was nowhere near as magnificent, yet she missed him and all his quirks, wondered where he was and would become of him.  Hopefully, it didn’t involve an orc and a butcher’s cleaver.  She bit back a prayer to Nocturnal.  If the Prince had cared about her, She wouldn't have let this happen to her.  And She wouldn't give a damn about her horse.

Mel knotted a longer rope to Tatiana’s bindings and secured it to her saddle. The air shimmered with pale green light as the last of her illusions broke.  The creases on her brow finally disappeared.  “Return the mare to Snak gra-Bura on the double,” she snapped as Duncan led a stocky roan out of the brush.  “I’ll see the prisoner to the waterfront.”

Nodding curtly, Duncan donned his helmet and stomped off.  His horse swished its tail as they passed, lashing Tatiana’s face.  She clenched her fingers until her knuckles ached, glared daggers at his back and silently cursed his shaved head and ugly horse.

A few minutes passed as Mel checked her tack for the ride back. “Your sister said you might put up a fight,” she said as she climbed into the saddle with practiced grace.

Tatiana looked up.  Mel’s rich mahogany complexion aside, she realized she vaguely resembled her aunt.  “She thought I’d take on a battlemage _and_ a watchman?” she scoffed.  “Forget armor and magic.  You’re both a head taller than me.  I’ve taken risks, but gods, never anything that stupid.“

“In any case, I’m glad you didn’t.  You’re in deep, but coming quietly will do you credit.  You and Captain Lex may be able to strike a deal.  For guild information, a lighter sentence or even your freedom.  You didn’t kill anyone or commit treason, so they can’t execute you without steeper crimes.”

Tatiana nodded as Mel’s confirmed her thoughts.  But she’d never work with that tin-plated bastard.  She’d never stoop to Antonia’s level.

“I won’t lie, Vestalis,” Mel continued, “most of the guards are going to treat you like something they scraped off their boots. I’m only here because Captain Lex requested I assist in your capture.  But no matter what happens, remember that we’ve all got pasts.  Play your cards right, and you could still make a future for yourself.  Understand?”

“I do,” she whispered.  She clenched her fists to still her quivering fingers. Hot tears ached behind her eyes, and sobs of hurt and fear and anger threatened to burst in her throat, but as they set off down the trail, she swallowed them and held her head high, walked with her back straight.  She’d never been some pathetic waif that bleated for help or wallowed in self-pity.  No, however false or genuine Mel’s kindness might be, she was right.  At the moment, her future was entombed in a cold, dark prison cell, sealed in mold and rusting iron. Nocturnal had forsaken her. To ensure their own survival, her guildmates and family would too.  She knew it.  The battlemage, for all her might-be-good intentions, knew it.  Antonia especially knew it.

But however poor they might be, those were still cards.  Whether it took weeks, months, or years, Tatiana would take Mel’s advice.  She’d find a way to play her hand.

And in the end, she’d win.


End file.
